


To be held

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series future fic, Dean and Cas finally get a little alone time and Dean doesn't know how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be held

Dean exhales with a huff as Cas breaks away to kiss at the bare skin of his neck. His head still spins with the heady reality of it all, and he remembers his hands lying by his side. Hands can be used for touching now. Especially now. Cas's teeth nip at his collarbone, and they come alive, grasping for the wrinkled white shirt still inexplicably covering Cas's body. His breathing is ragged and loud to his own ears; he attempts to quiet it.

 

Cas rises until he is breathing against Dean's ear, moving his face against the rough stubble there. “Stop thinking,” he says, voice more broken than Dean has ever heard it. 

 

“Not so simple,” Dean croaks while Cas moves his attention back to Dean's neck, breezing open mouthed kisses against his pulse point. “Don't just-- _ahh_ \-- normal people don't just start making out with their best friends everyday--”

 

Cas laughs softly, reaching for Dean's hands still clasping at his shirt to lace their fingers together. Balancing on his elbows, he places small kisses at each of Dean's knuckles, slowly and methodically. Dean feels heat rise to his face. 

 

“Shit, man,” he huffs, letting his eyes fall shut in embarrassment. 

 

“The only enigma here,” Castiel says, releasing his hands and moving to run his mouth over Dean's chest and upper arms, “is that you don't think you're worth any of this.”

 

“I've had a lot of sex, man. People touching me isn't a problem.” The words are meaningless, and he knows it. This has nothing to do with sex. 

 

“Maybe not,” he releases one hand and traces his fingers over Dean's nipples, eliciting a gasp, “But usually you are the one doing the touching,” he moves back up to peck at Dean's lips again, “and kissing,” kiss, “and you go out of your way to make your partner feel... good.”

 

“How do you know that?” He can't help the crack in his voice, the way it catches on the words like barbs in his throat.

 

“Because you've made me feel good, Dean. Now let me help you.”

 

Dean's retort is lost when Cas dips back down to kiss him. Kissing he could do. Kissing he has done a lot of. Some he even wishes he could forget, but no one kisses like Cas. All lips and soft sucking and gentle sweeps of his tongue before parting to move to the skin of his neck and chest. Cas's breath is like a whisper, the barest hint of words whispered onto his body. Enochian, he had said. The words were a part of him, a part of how angels made love.

 

When Cas catches a nipple in his mouth, Dean arches off the bed with a gasp, burying his hands in Cas's thick hair. He gives attention to one, nipping gently before laving his tongue over the sensitive flesh. He grasps harder, and Cas only moans into his skin, running his hands along Dean's sides.

 

Dean relaxes then, pliant to Cas's ministrations. He allows himself to be rearranged, back pressed against Cas's chest, leaning against the headboard. 

 

“Beautiful,” Castiel whispers to him, almost unseen, reaching one hand down to unbutton Dean's jeans. 

 

Dean feels the warmth again, flushing his face and neck, but it feels good. It melts into his muscles as Cas jacks his length through the open fly, one arm wrapped tight around his ribcage. His head falls back against Cas's shoulder, breath punched out of him while his feet slide and clench around the sheets, looking for purchase against the rush of feeling. 

 

Castiel nips at his ear; the angel's breath is ragged, his hips rocking in tiny motions against Dean's back. “I love watching you like this,” he says, his motion still agonizingly slow against Dean's cock.

 

“Cas,” the name falls from his lips like a prayer, mixing with a moan.

 

Cas picks up his pace, twisting his wrist at the head and running a thumb along the slit until Dean's hips buck into his hand, coming with a gasp. Cas holds them flush together as he rides out the aftershocks, running a soothing hand over Dean's stomach.

 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says, his voice a ragged whisper. Something wet pricks at the corner of his eyes. 

 

Before he can swat them away, Cas's hand is there, brushing the tears away. They leave a shining track where they spilled. 

 

Dean swallows, turning around to meet Cas's eyes. The angel holds his gaze, sweeping a hand over his neck to rest in the hair at the nape of Dean's neck. “Can't believe I'm sitting here crying like a sap because you gave me a handjob.” His bravado is unconvincing even to him.

 

Cas brushes his hair back, placing a light kiss on the corner of Dean's mouth. “There are worse things,” he says, gathering him close to press another kiss to his forehead. For another minute more, they settle against each other.

 


End file.
